"Mr. Sanchez asked me to pass along a message. This is what happens when you defy him. If you're willing to apologize to Ms. Swanson and agree to personally attend to her for the rest of her pregnancy, he'll have me drive you home."

I didn't hear a word. I just put one foot in front of the other and started walking toward home.

Blood trickled down my thighs and dripped onto the asphalt, drawing stares from passersby. But I was beyond feeling any of it. One step, then another, then another, until the sky turned black and I finally reached the front door.

The house blazed with light, pushing back the cold of the late hour. I raised my fingers, stiff and half-frozen, and punched in the code.

The keypad answered with an error tone.

I clenched my teeth and entered it again. And again. The system rejected me every single time.

The housekeeper finally stormed to the door, flung it open, and stared at me with flat, pitiless eyes.

"Ma'am, you can stop trying. Until you apologize to Mr. Sanchez, you're not allowed to use anything he paid for."

"This house belongs to Mr. Sanchez. If you won't apologize, you can't come in."

She looked me up and down and let out a scornful laugh.

"If you ask me, you should just hurry up and apologize. Do you have any idea who Mr. Sanchez is? There's a line of women out there waiting to take your place. Look at yourself. No family background, no looks to speak of. Over thirty and you can't even have children anymore..."

"That woman of his is already carrying his child, and he still hasn't divorced you. That's more than you deserve. So what exactly are you throwing a fit about?"

I cut her off quietly.

"I'm not going in. I just need to take one thing and leave."

The housekeeper choked on her words for a moment, then sneered.

"Everything you own was bought by Mr. Sanchez. What could possibly belong to you? Don't tell me you're planning to steal his jewelry and handbags to pawn off somewhere."

"I just want my medical file," I said calmly. "Is that not allowed?"

She rolled her eyes, went upstairs, and came back down with a manila envelope that she threw at me.

I picked it up and looked at the document inside: a necrospermia diagnosis report bearing Dennis Sanchez's name. I smiled without making a sound.

This was the medical examination report from our premarital checkup ten years ago.